Slipping
by AmayaSora
Summary: Draco is slipping away into the hazy fog of unconsciousness after the Sectumsempra incident when a voice floats through the fog bringing an admission that could change everything... AU HBP. HPDM pre-slash ish, oneshot. COMPLETE


**In Chapter 24 of **_**Half-Blood Prince, **_**during the Sectumsempra scene, JK Rowling gives us this:**

"'_**No-' gasped Harry**__...'__**No- I didn't-' **__**Harry did not know what he was saying**__**."**_

**The book is told from Harry's perspective, and so if **_**he **_**doesn't know exactly what he's saying, how are we supposed to know with certainty? And from this train of thought, the following one-shot was born! Some wishful thinking from a Drarry shipper... I hope you will enjoy it. *bows and gestures for curtain to rise***

**DISCLAIMER:**** I don't own Draco, Harry, or any other part of JKR's wonderful Potter universe. And I write purely for a love of the characters and of writing in general, not for any profit. Direct quotes from the **_**Half-Blood Prince **_**book are **underlined** in this fic.**

**-AmayaSora**

Slipping

Draco Malfoy awoke warm and comfortable, nestled in crisp white sheets that smelled decidedly different from the ones usually put on his bed. The stupid house elves must have forgotten the special instructions regarding the Slytherin dormitories, he thought angrily, and yanked his eyes open, intending to rage about it with Blaise- supposing the boy would talk to him, that is.

But he was staring, not at the green hangings trimmed in silver, but at a plain white ceiling, although a high one, and lit absurdly well. The ceiling of the Hospital Wing, and now that he was looking for it Draco could feel the metal springs from the bed digging into his spine. He scowled and closed his eyes again, both against the brightness to which he was now sorely unaccustomed, thanks to all of his work in the dim Room of Hidden Things, and so as to better concentrate on recalling the chain of events that led him here.

Logically, Madam Pomfrey would have come into the mix at some point, so he focused on her, and a slightly blurry image of her concerned face leaning over him, wand and potion in hand, appeared in his mind. So she had given him the potion, presumably, and done a spell as well?

He vaguely recalled _Severus's_ voice, though, a long stream of words woven together like a melody, and being half-carried up the stairs. So the former Potions master had delivered him here, then... had there been a mishap in Defense Against the Dark Arts? But, no, Snape never made Draco actually work in that class; he understood how useless it was...

None of these thoughts, however, did anything to substantially reduce Draco's anxiety. He had no idea what could have happened to make Snape take him here in the first place. He had no idea how _long _he'd been there, either, he realized with a rush of panic. Even a small setback could bring the Dark Lord's wrath upon him, and he was so displeased with Draco already... he didn't think Draco could do it.

Half the time _Draco _didn't think he could do it, if he was honest with himself. Or with Myrtle... Draco frowned and opened his eyes. He could remember _something _about the ghost being involved in all of this, but it was nothing more than a vague inkling, a tantalizing ribbon he could see but couldn't grasp to pull and reveal its mysteries.

How much _did _he remember? Surely no one would hit him with a Memory Charm... unless they tried Occlumency and failed. His mind immediately flew to Snape, calculating now... how badly did the man want this glory? This honor? And if it _had _been Snape, that would make the trip to the Hospital Wing a cover-up, designed to deflect suspicion...

Draco set about recalling everything he could about himself. _I am Draco Lucius Malfoy, sixteen years old, proud son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black. I am attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where I am, of course, in Slytherin. My favorite color is green, and my favorite class is- _was_- Potions. Extracurricular activities include my prefect duties, Quidditch, and my service to the Dark Lord-_

He stopped short, then, because thinking about his mission so plainly set that now-familiar swirl of fear spiraling into his gut. Fear for his own life, and that of his family, if he should fail... the increasing likelihood of that happening... He often found himself wondering how exactly the Dark Lord would do it. It was too naive to think it would be a quick and painless _Avada Kedavra_; no, his Master would want to make Draco thoroughly suffer first... probably torture and kill his parents right in front of him... Unbidden images of his Mother's face contorted in pain sprung into his mind, and he suddenly found himself breathing heavily, wildly panicked, heart pounding.

Some combination of those things caused a faint ache in his chest, and Draco latched onto that as something to distract himself from his imagined horrors. Cautiously, he sat up, and the ache remained static, no worse yet no better. His torso was wrapped in bandages- his eyes immediately flew to his left forearm but that had been bandaged too, presumably by Severus seeing as how he wasn't in Azkaban right now.

From this, Draco concluded that an injury had landed him here- better than an illness in that it required a much shorter convalescence, but still not a comforting realization because he still couldn't remember _how _he got injured, if he had any enemies to watch out for. Well, of course he had enemies, but if there was any _specific _threat to be dealt with.

Draco finally took a moment to survey the room, realizing that he probably should have done it much sooner and berating himself for such a juvenile oversight. It was empty save for him; even the hovering Mediwitch was nowhere to be seen; maybe Snape had instructed her to give Draco privacy. His clothes were not on the chair beside the bed, which meant something had happened to them. His wand had been placed on the small bedside table alongside a small vial and a goblet that had most likely contained the potion he'd remembered earlier.

He reached over and grabbed it- standard, low-quality gold-plated goblet. Some drops of a dark red potion remained at the bottom; he tipped the cup completely upside down and coaxed them into his mouth, swishing carefully. It tasted vaguely familiar, and he hoped that wasn't just because he'd taken it a few- Blood Replenishing Potion, he realized with distinct pride.

Blood loss would certainly explain the fuzzy memory, he decided. It made one woozy, and he can't have been concentrating properly on what was going on around him to form memories in the first place. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and returned the goblet to its original position to take up the vial.

This one he recognized immediately as dittany, a powerful magical healing substance. It made him pause; he must have been injured more severely than he thought if he needed Blood Replenishing Potion _and _dittany... yet whatever it was seemed to be healed alright now, judging from the relative lack of pain and the absence of blood stains on the dressings.

The most likely suspect was, then, a spell of some sort, one that could be stopped with a counterenchantment (the melody-like phrase Severus had uttered). Draco's knowledge of curses was by no means encyclopedic even though his Aunt Bellatrix had taught him some useful ones over the summer, so he couldn't think of one that would cause bleeding.

Upon further thought, Draco determined that knowing the specific curse was far less important than figuring out who it was that cast it. Crabbe and Goyle would never _dare_, no matter how frustrated they got. He didn't see much of Nott lately- he didn't see much of _anyone _lately, which meant that any one of them could have suddenly developed vengeful, jealous thoughts and meticulously crafted this plan... they could be lurking now, waiting to strike again when he was weak and they were sure-

_You are being paranoid, _he told himself firmly. _It is beneath you. _Marginally calmer, Draco returned to the task at hand: deciphering the chain of events leading to him waking up in Hospital Wing. He was a Slytherin, and he would put that cunning to good use. Cunning was such a useful House trait, he thought smugly. Who cared if you were hard-working, and Gryffindor bravery usually bordered on foolishness.

Gryffindor... there were some Gryffindors in his Charms class. Perhaps one of them- but he quickly dismissed the thought; the lions were too _good _and _noble _to go around cursing people in hallways- even Weasley waited until he struck first.

But, Longbottom was certainly incompetent enough to mess up a relatively simple spell- a Severing Charm, for instance- and morph it into something he couldn't control. Perhaps that was what had happened... but why would Severus be there, unless Flitwick had called him? Could Longbottom screw up that badly? Well, obviously, he could, but _did_ he?

Draco wracked his brains. He didn't think they were doing Severing Charms in class; in fact he was almost sure of it. And it would require a tremendous amount of ineptitude to alter another Charm that drastically, and Draco had to grudgingly admit that Longbottom had at least improved enough over the past two years to render that unlikely, especially with Granger and Potter hanging around... to... babysit...

His thoughts trailed off as blank shock entered his mind and became the only thing he could discern. Another hazy memory had swam up at the mention of Scarhead, but Draco knew it couldn't be right... Potter wouldn't use a curse like that; he didn't have the stomach for it. He wouldn't even _know _a curse Dark enough to do this to him... yet the snippet of memory Draco found was of Potter's wand slashing through the air and a spurt of red blood suddenly shooting out of Draco's chest.

This was completely illogical, yet Draco couldn't think of any possible reason for his mind to create a false memory such as that. But _Potter... _the ponce might be annoying as hell, but he wasn't _capable _of such a feat... if he was, why then- Draco's whole world view would be turned on its head, and everybody would have to do some serious rethinking and adjusting... His mind leapt to expulsion, disgrace for the Golden Boy, Draco's path to Dumbledore clear, rewards heaped upon him...

He had to know. So he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, preparing himself. The technique was risky, he knew, but Aunt Bellatrix had taught him well, showed him precisely how to pry into other people's thoughts and memories, dig for information- and his mother had shown him this new form, where you basically performed Legillimency on yourself in order to more fully hide thoughts you didn't want other Legilimens to find, locking them to your magic signature. How his mother had figured it out, Draco would never know, but he was going to see if it could be effective in a situation like this. It wouldn't hurt to try.

So he envisioned himself standing on the shores of a clear lake, and then filled that lake with the silver wisps of memory- just the strands in the generic sense, no need to think of anything concrete or specific. And he dived down into them, cautiously so as not to get lost.

As Mother had said, the waters of memory parted for him, countless strands immediately retreating to the far edges, deemed irrelevant. As he focused more and more on what he wanted to recall, some strands came into sharper focus, thickening and moving closer to him. At last, only one remained, and he grasped it, triumphant, and was immediately hurled into a tunnel and back out so he was looking from his own eyes.

He was in Myrtle's bathroom, and the girl was cooing to him. "Don't..." and Draco realized she was talking about the crying- so he'd succumbed to tears again, he thought bitterly.  "Don't... Tell me what's wrong... I can help you..."

"No one can help me," Draco hears himself say, and feels the tremor that rocks his body. "I can't do it... I can't... It won't work... and unless I do it soon... he says he'll kill me..."

And now he's said too much and he knows it, because his father was right and getting emotional makes you vulnerable, weak, so he must calm down. He grips the sink tighter, to relieve some of the stress, and takes a long, deep breath, shaky but it does the trick and the tears slow, cease.

With a gulp of air Draco raises his head, and the mirror is cracked but he can see Potter's reflection clearly in it, Potter and his look of pity- and it's too much, so he whips around and pulls his wand, shoots a wordless Body Bind, but it misses. Potter counters with some spell Draco just manages to block.

"No! No! Stop it!" Myrtle is screaming, but Draco can't focus on that now, he has a fight to win, to prove to Potter that he's not weak and he doesn't need or want any of that horrid _pity. _He ups the ante and tries a Stunner, misses and hits the wall.

Potter's next curse misses, too, but it breaks the sink and sends water pouring onto the floor, and Draco is so scared and tired and angry that he doesn't stop to think, just says the first curse that pops into his head: "_Cruc-"_

_"SECTUMSEMPRA!_" Potter screams in desperation; he'd slipped on the water and landed on the floor, and he waves his wand wildly in the air.

And here's the spray of blood Draco remembered, only now accompanied by pain and unadulterated terror; the force of the spell and the shock sends him stumbling backwards, reeling, and then his legs can't support him anymore so he falls down into the water, wand falling out of his limp hand.

"No-" Potter gasps weakly, and Draco is clawing at his own face now, trying to stop the bleeding, the pain but he can't and now he's slipping away, slipping under the haze of blood and water... he was tired to begin with...

A loud thud and he's aware that someone is next to him on the floor, and by the panicked, distraught voice that penetrates the fog Draco knows it is Potter. "No- I didn't- I didn't mean- I'm sorry! No- don't... you can't- please, Draco, don't- stay with me, Draco... oh god, no! No, I love you, Draco, _please!_"

And then Potter is shoved away, and here is the spell Draco had previously remembered Severus using, and the bleeding is stopping, the pain lessening, and on the third time he's pulled to his feet, semi-conscious. And Severus murmurs something about "Hospital Wing" and "scarring" but Draco doesn't hear it because he's only focusing on one sense, vision; blurry though it is, it is tunnel-like on Potter and his devastated face, raw with concern.

Draco doesn't need to revisit the trek to the wing or Pomfrey's ministrations, and he suspects that he won't be able to comprehend any of it anyway. He let go of the strand of memory and snapped back into himself, lying on the hospital bed, breathing as if he'd just run a marathon.

He took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves, but it did little to slow down his heart. Potter had no idea what he was saying; he was babbling, too appalled at the affects of his spell to think coherently. And yet, that didn't make it any less true, the things he'd said.

In fact, if Father was right about what emotions did to people, it made it even _more _true; what had slipped out and around the filters Potter usually had between brain and mouth was unedited, uncensored. And to Draco, it hadn't sounded as if the boy was merely concerned about getting in trouble. Potter had thought Draco was dying- Draco probably _was _dying, come to that... and the thought of losing him distressed Potter that much?

Well, of course it would, if Harry loved him.

That single thought broke through the practiced, analytical mindset Draco had forced upon himself since waking up. Harry Potter loved him. It was foolhardy to believe it, but the teen had said it himself, and somehow Draco just knew, _knew _that the declaration had been genuine. He couldn't remember anyone speaking to him with that much honest emotion in their voice, ever- not Mother, certainly not Father. And it changed his whole world. He'd built it around the undeniable, irreversible truth that Potter hated him and always would, regardless of Draco's own feelings, and Draco had acted accordingly, harnessed his anger and heartache to take steps to torment the boy whenever possible, be a fierce rival if he couldn't be a friend or lover.

But if Harry loved him- _since_ Harry loved him, he could stop the escalation and the increasingly petty and mean-spirited jibes, stop ridiculing Harry's friends and favorite professors, stop courting Astoria like his father asked him to, finally be able to go through a full meal without levitating a fork for her entertainment, the simpleton... not that Draco had had much time to do those things recently, anyway, but if things were different, if he wasn't who he was, then maybe-

Draco sighed deeply, and, unbelievably, tears began prickling the back of his eyes. _If things were different_... but they weren't, and they couldn't be, because Draco's family was in danger and family came first, came before self and glory and fame, always. Family.

He wiped the few traitorous tears that dared fall away with the back of his hand. He was stronger than this, he was a Malfoy. And he had a mission to complete. One mission to save his family, and then- _then _he could set about making things different, making it so Harry would say those words of his own volition, consciously look Draco in the eye and say, "I love you."

Draco swung his feet out of bed and stood up, newly determined. He grabbed his wand from the table and wordlessly Summoned a robe from the stack of spares Pomfrey always kept. He ran his wand over his hair, smoothing it perfectly, and strutted out of the Hospital Wing, head held high. And he pointedly ignored the voice in the back of mind reminding him that of _course _it won't be just one mission, and this particular mission would put him forever out of Harry's good graces.

Nearly a year later, Draco realized just how wrong that voice had been. Flaming monsters were roaring in his ears, leaping at his feet, and still Harry dived, swerved around tooth and claw and tail and stretched out a hand to him, _him_, Draco Malfoy.

Slipping- too slick, can't hold on, Harry's hand was slipping away. Draco figured that this was it, this fire just a prelude for the infernos of hell where he'd surely be headed. Yet he could think of nothing but that moment, how wonderful it had felt to hear Harry say those three little words, how it had changed his life- or should have. He just wasn't strong enough to let it. He'd tried, though, he really had... hopefully that would count for something.

Harry's eyes were burning, too, green depths blazing with determination even through the fear as he pulled the broom up alongside Draco's rickety perch, and without thinking Draco flung his leg over, latching onto Harry like the Savior he was, risking his life for the- Risking his life. A wild, roaring terror gripped Draco then- Harry couldn't die, especially not for him. "The door, get to the door, the door!" he pleaded, but Harry didn't listen, he was going to wrong way, right towards a grinning snake- some irony there, if Draco was in any fit state to notice such things. "What are you doing, what are you doing, the door's that way!"

Harry lurched forward, and Draco couldn't stand it anymore; he buried his face in Harry's back and just cried, holding Harry tightly, trying to condense a lifetime of affection into this one desperate flight, convey all his love for this singular person who loved him too, and it didn't matter if Harry never said it again, never recognized it for himself, if he stayed with Weaselette and had dozens of children and never looked Draco's way. This moment was enough, because here Harry was _showing it._

There was a crash and Harry jerked out of Draco's grip, and Draco fell onto the floor. Smoke still filled his lungs, heat his veins, yet his heart was filled with love, and he decided that the vomit and tears and sweat were more than worth it, to have held Harry close. But he couldn't say that- too much his Father's son, too much a coward- and so he gasped "C-Crabbe. C-Crabbe..."

"He's dead." Of course he was; Draco always knew it, if he was honest with himself. And that was sad but at least Harry was alive, soot-stained and smelling of ash but _breathing _through the coughs.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry asked, and Draco threw up again. Harry loved him, but he also loved the girl. He loved everybody; that was why he was fighting, that was always why he did things. Because of love.

_Maybe Father was wrong, _Draco thought as he watched Harry rush off down the corridor, towards the battle, towards people who needed him. _Maybe emotions- maybe _love _makes you stronger, not weaker._

He picked himself up off the floor as the corridor shook from some destructive spell. He didn't have a wand anymore, but now he had a heart full of love, like Harry's. And he would see what that could do for him.

_"When your heart is full of Love, what room is there for fear?" - Harold Klemp_


End file.
